


An Infamous Client

by timetospy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, To An Extent, mention of Wilde trial, this takes bits and pieces from a lot of different source material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4953658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was in the year ‘95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great University towns...<br/>-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Adventure of the Three Students"</p><p>I took this sentence and ran with it. This is not ACD timeline compliant, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been kicking around in my head for a long time, and I thought now might be a good time to get it out there and started.
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank [sherloki1854](http://sherloki1854.tumblr.com)for their historical insights.
> 
> If you're interested, you can find my tumblr [here](http://gunshyvw.tumblr.com/).

April, 1895

 

Sherlock Holmes watched as the lamplighter meandered his way down the street, extinguishing the lamps. Thin yellow sunlight cut through the banks of fog that hung low over the rooftops as dawn crept into London. A cab clattered its way through the empty streets.

He hadn’t slept. He waited. As the lamplighter rounded the corner and disappeared, a small figure dashed from an alley, careening down the pavement as fast as his legs could carry him.

The boy, for it was a boy, was in his own estimation perhaps nine years old. He wore a brown cloth cap that was too large for his head, a green waistcoat that hadn’t been altered properly by the Ladies’ Aid Society and hung crookedly off one shoulder, a man’s shirt unbuttoned at the neck with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and too-short trousers that had been mended at the knees at least seven times. His boots, however, were well-kept, buffed to a dull tawny gleam.

Holmes retreated from the window, and hurried through the sitting room and down the stairs.

The Oxford blue door to 221 Baker Street opened before the boy had a chance to knock. Sherlock Holmes would have cut an imposing figure looming in the doorway had it not been for his disheveled hair and rumpled dressing gown.

“Archie.”

“Morning, sir. News today, sir.”

Holmes nodded, allowing Archie to enter, and the pair ascended the stairs.

The sitting room seemed particularly cluttered that morning, with papers and teacups scattered over every horizontal surface, a plate of untouched food ossifying in the corner. The breakfast table was buried in gigantic stacks of books. If there’d been a stiff breeze, the whole conglomeration would have come toppling down, taking the table with it.

Archie paused to look at the books for a moment, picking out the letters he’d learned when Mr. Holmes had taught him to sign his name.

Holmes waved a hand, gesturing toward a chair, and Archie dutifully sat. He’d learned the hard way not to speak before he was told, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Holmes began searching through piles of papers, lifting random sheets by the corner and peering under them, sending the papers on top cascading to the floor. It was nearly a minute of this bizarre dance before he pulled a persian slipper out from under a teetering stack of teacups with a triumphant ‘ha!’ and settled into his own chair.

“What news?” he asked, as he packed a pipe.

“He’s been arrested sir, last night, taken to Bow Street.”

“Fool!” The word hissed and popped like wet wood. Holmes pitched his pipe into the fireplace, and it smashed into thousands of tiny shards as it hit the back of the firebox.

“Telegrams,” Holmes snapped, and Archie jumped up to retrieve the telegraph forms. Luckily for him, they were still on the bookshelf next to a large collection of bound newspapers.

Archie handed the papers over and Holmes snatched them from his hand. He swiped an entire folio of paper off the desk and, plucking a pen from a cigar box that had survived a rather gruesome fire, began to write.

 

****************

 

The sun disappeared by late morning and a steady drizzle soaked all who ventured outdoors. Holmes stalked across the sitting room, his cigarette sending a steady stream of smoke up to the ceiling. He couldn’t recall how many he’d lit, only that Mrs. Hudson would scold him for the trail of ash he’d left on the carpet. It was becoming a visible line of grey where he’d been pacing in front of the fireplace, punctuated by piles at either end where he dropped his spent ends. He’d been a flurry of activity all morning, exchanging telegrams with a man he knew in Oxford about lodgings and bellowing to Mrs. Hudson for his luggage and perhaps tea, and he had sent a telegram to Watson, but had not yet received a reply. Why had he not received a reply? The man always replied. Particularly to urgent telegrams sent by one Sherlock Holmes reply-paid.

Holmes flung himself into his chair. He crossed a leg, but that seemed to be terribly proper when he was alone, so he pulled his knees up to his chin. Then, changing his mind again, re-crossed his leg. He dangled one arm off the edge of his chair, then placed it back on the armrest, then dangled it again, then sat up perfectly straight in the chair, drumming his fingers on his knees. He couldn’t sit.

Resigned to that fact, he crossed to the fireplace and leaned against it, his forearm balanced on the mantel.

He heard the rattle of the front door, and he straightened, alert, hopeful.

“Holmes!” the familiar voice rang out.

His eyes slid shut for a brief moment, and he took a deep breath in through his nose.

“I would have been here half an hour ago,” Watson called up.

Holmes pictured the doctor pulling off his gloves and coat, shaking out his umbrella, and hanging them all in the entryway.

“Except I had a rather persistent patient. Strange pains in his toes.”

Watson entered the sitting room, his shoes splattered with mud (Kensington and Baker Street, he’d taken a cab), and his cuffs moist (must have walked two streets at least from the cab, why?). He would have to see Watson’s umbrella to deduce more.  

“Turns out his shoes had worn through and the tacs had been pricking his toes!” Watson chuckled, grinning at Holmes, hoping he would share in the absurdity. Holmes studied the carpet instead, a smile threatening to break across his face. He felt the small twitches at the corners of his mouth and pulled his lips between his teeth to quell them.

The doorbell sounded, and both men turned their heads to listen to the familiar cadence of Mrs. Hudson greeting someone downstairs. Holmes huffed through his nose and doused his cigarette in a half-empty teacup set precariously on the edge of the mantel.

“Are you expecting a client?” Watson asked, his eyebrows raised. “You’d not said so in your message.”

“I’m afraid, my dear Watson,” Holmes said as he pulled tobacco from the persian slipper that now resided on the bookshelf next to the telegraph papers and began rolling another cigarette, “that you are the only visitor I’m expecting today.”

“Then who’s that?”

Mrs. Hudson bustled in, telegram laid precisely in the center of a silver tray. She scanned the room upon entering, a small, distressed murmur escaping when she saw the state of several of her teacups. It seemed to have gotten worse in the past twenty minutes, and she wasn’t quite sure how that was possible.

“Mr. Holmes, another telegram. The office wants to know if you’ll be receiving more, and if so, can they deliver them batched per hour to save time?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m not expecting any more today.” Holmes lit his cigarette.

She searched for somewhere to place the delivered telegram, but found every surface covered with papers. Flustered by the lack of horizontal surfaces upon which she could place messages, she stepped over a stack of books on the floor and thrust the delivered telegram in Holmes’ face. He took it instinctively.

Telegram delivered, she began collecting teacups from the sitting room, stacking them a bit precariously on her tray. As she plucked the teacup off the mantel, she glanced inside.

“Mr. Holmes! I do wish you wouldn’t use my good teacups for ashtrays,” She turned around and saw the piles of spent cigarette ends on the floor on either side of the fireplace. Her eyes grew wide, and her face reddened. She made a rather undignified squawk and marched out of the flat, banging the door shut behind her.

“Well, I can’t say I blame her,” Watson said to the closed door. “You have made rather a mess of things.”

Holmes turned around in the middle of the room and saw that he’d stacked Watson’s chair full of books, all marked with slips of paper at various intervals. He slipped the telegram into his dressing gown pocket, then hoisted the stack of books off the chair, moving them across the room to the desk he’d divested of papers earlier that morning.

“I can just…”

He hadn’t noticed the mess. Not until Watson had pointed it out. How had it got to this point?

Watson smiled, seating himself in the now-vacant chair.

“Well,” Watson said, drawing the word out, “no client, yet an urgent telegram requesting my presence at Baker Street. Care to elaborate?”

“Can a man not wish to spend the day with his dearest friend?” Holmes’ face softened, his agitation soothed by Watson’s mere presence. He fought the inclination to close his eyes and simply breathe in the presence of him, as he had been absent from Baker Street for more than a fortnight.

“Certainly, but an urgent telegram?” Watson quirked an eyebrow and grinned. “You only need ask, my boy.” his voice was pitched low, suggestive. His eyes slid to the door, then met Holmes’ again, the implication clear. Holmes sighed. How much he would love to lock the door and curl up beside his Watson, his fingers tracing patterns onto his skin, his lips sore from kissing instead of worry. He shook his head. It would not do to dwell in fantasy today.

“I have a case in Oxford that requires my immediate attention,” he said, turning away and staring into the fire. “I should not ask this of you...”

Holmes paused. What he should do and what he would do in this instance were at war, and only Watson himself could decide the outcome. “However, I cannot seem to help myself. Will you join me?”

“Ah! So it is a case!” Watson said, and pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket, along with a stub of pencil. “And in Oxford. When do we leave?”

“This may take more than a week-end to unravel,” Holmes said. He did not turn to face Watson. “Perhaps you should inform your wife before making your decision?”

“If we leave on the seven o’clock train, I’ll have plenty of time for informing my wife and packing a few things. Brixby is competent and will be glad of more business, I’m sure, and Mary never minds when I leave for these ‘little adventures’ as she calls them.”

Holmes stared at the fire for a moment longer, contemplating. It was impossible to know how the headlines would print. He had theories, of course, and the more sensational papers would likely invent details. They’d been lucky enough to avoid the morning news, but the arrest would never stay out of the evening papers, and Holmes wanted to be well away from London by the time the news hit.

“No, it will have to be the three o’clock, I’m afraid. I’ve already sent word ahead to that effect. Do you still have time?” He hadn’t sent any such message. He was impatient. And the worry gnawing at the base of his skull did not improve that quality.

Watson studied his watch for several moments.

“I shall have to meet you at the station, but I believe I can make it.”

“Excellent. Then I‘ll lay out all the particulars during our journey.” Holmes tossed the spent end of his cigarette into the fire, and turned to Watson, his lips turned up in a faint, forced smile.

Watson grinned, then, his face brightening with the prospect of a case, but the light just as quickly faded. He rose and crossed to Holmes, pulling him away from the fire with a firm hand to his elbow. The concern etched into his brow nearly melted the last of Holmes’ reserve. It was all Holmes could do to not lean down and place a chaste kiss on his cheek. Watson took one of his hands and held it, running his thumb across the knuckles.

“What’s troubling you, Holmes?” he asked.

Holmes sighed.

“I am simply absorbed in the case.” He didn’t meet Watson’s eyes as he spoke. He would never have been able to hold his gaze without explaining everything, and he had no words for the nebulous, aching terror that gripped him.

Watson wasn’t fooled, and Holmes could see it written in his eyes and the angle of his chin. He could also see that Watson was not going to belabor the point now, for which he was grateful.

Watson brought Holmes’ fingers to his lips. His infernal moustache tickled as he kissed Holmes’ knuckles. They’d had that discussion more times than either of them could count, and Watson always won, and the moustache stayed. Holmes would never admit that he found it attractive, because in every other conceivable way it was a nuisance.

“I will meet you at the station for the three o’clock train, Sherlock” he said in the barest of whispers, and when Holmes heard his Christian name on Watson’s lips, it filled him with the most unpleasant combination of adoration and longing. He flashed through several scenarios in which he kissed Watson senseless. He stilled his mind and settled on a smile instead. Kissing Watson would cause them to miss the train, because at this point it would never be just kisses.

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

Watson sighed, squeezing his hand before dropping it and moving away. Holmes watched Watson depart, uttered the requisite pleasantries. When he heard the front door latch closed behind Watson, Holmes withdrew the telegram he’d shoved into his dressing gown pocket and read.

 

dearest fellow shall arrive earliest moment HKRA  TTT

 

It was a foolish thing, dangerous even, to include such sentiment in a telegram. Even if it was in code. Given enough motivation, even a codfish could decode this. But Holmes tucked it back into his pocket anyway, and patted it into place.

After that was another hasty telegram to Oxford, shouts for Mrs. Hudson to bring him his suitcase, grousing about the state of his shirts and collars, and the general hubbub that ensued when Sherlock Holmes left Baker Street for a case.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Watson barged through the front door of the house he shared with Mary, all but slamming it behind him in his haste. If he was to send the requisite messages as well as prepare for the journey, he would need to be swift.

“Maisy?” he called into the house.

“Yes, sir?” A mouse of a girl peeked out from the kitchen, her brown hair swept up under a mobcap, her cheeks pink from the heat of the fire.

“Where is Mrs. Watson?”

“Out calling, sir. It’s Thursday.”

“Yes, of course. Has the post been by?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Good. That’s very good. Thank you.” Watson nodded his dismissal.

Maisy ducked back into the kitchen after dropping a quick curtsey, and Watson retreated to his consultation room to write letters.

The Watsons’ house was modest, sat in the middle of a row, with a small consultation room on the ground floor for Dr. Watson’s patients, and a rather large dining room and parlor behind in which Mrs. Watson entertained. There were three rooms upstairs, one of which Mary had transformed into a morning room for herself, and one that she had decided would be a nursery for their future children, if any.

It was not that Watson had no desire for children. It was that, while he appreciated women for their beauty and conversation, he simply did not derive much satisfaction from the marriage bed. The scar on his thigh, a faint white line raised against his skin, became his explanation when he found things difficult with Mary.

Funnily enough, in all the times he and Holmes had shared a bed, he’d never had any such trouble, but that felt like a very long time ago. Watson sighed, sitting back in his chair as memories washed over him. In the five years since his marriage, they hadn’t once shared more than a heated kiss. Not for the first time, he pictured Holmes as he had been then, laid out across Watson’s bed, moonlight filtered through the curtains catching each contour of shoulders and back and leg as he lounged, sated, after their last coupling. He felt the arousal stir in the depths of his gut and pulled himself out of the memory before he got carried away.

He finished his letters and set them out for the postman, then withdrew upstairs to prepare for the journey. Aside from his revolver and a change of undergarments, he had no idea what to bring with him for this case.

Some moments later, he heard noise in the front hall, and Mary’s bright voice. Her tread on the stair was light, and he was startled when the door opened. She surveyed the clothes laid out on the bed next to an open suitcase, and Watson could have sworn he saw a flash of anger in her eyes before a wide smile stretched her fine lips.

“Oh, of course,” Mary patted his cheek before sweeping past him to pull a hat box off the top of her wardrobe. “By all means, run off with your detective friend and have your little adventure. I shall amuse myself with embroidery and napkin folding. Perhaps I shall even re-decorate the morning room while you’re away. Does lilac suit your taste?” Her tone was pleasant, but the barb in her words was poorly concealed.

Watson smiled, but the expression didn’t stick.

“Lilac would be lovely,” he said.

“It’s settled, then. Lilac for the morning room.”

Watson pulled a shirt out of his wardrobe, laying it out on the bed with more care than was necessary, and began folding it, paying special attention to the creases at the arms. He considered it for a moment before shaking it out and beginning again.

He glanced over to where Mary still rummaged through the hat box, and watched as she returned it to the top of the wardrobe and moved to the dressing table, opening and closing the various boxes there that contained all the accoutrements that she insisted were necessary for a lady of her position.  

He crossed the small space between them, his footfalls muffled by the new carpet, and he placed a hand at the small of her back.

“I’ll send a telegram the moment I arrive,” Watson said.

“Yes, do,” Mary replied. “And take this.” She turned to him and held out a small, fern green square of silk. “For your pocket. So we will not feel so far apart.”

The sting of her earlier words had vanished. Here was the Mary he had met and married, the Mary he, in his own way, loved. He held the small cloth to his lips for a moment, then folded it expertly before tucking it into the pocket over his heart. He patted it into place, then bent to kiss Mary’s cheek.

“I’m only going to Oxford,” he said. “Not so very far.”

“But it will be as if you’ve gone to the moon.”

“Now you’re being histrionic,” he replied. “I said I’d send a telegram, and you can write.”

“I suppose,” she replied, and sighed.

“The time will pass in an instant, and I’ll be back before you’ve had time to miss me.”

“What would you know about it?” she breathed, so softly that Watson was unsure if he’d heard anything.

She turned away from him then, a smile fixed to her lips, and began meticulously folding and packing his clothes.

“Oxford, you said? What on earth could be happening in Oxford this time of year?” she asked conversationally, and Watson felt dizzy from the shift in tone.

“I’m certain I don’t know. He said he would detail the case on the train. It sounded quite urgent, from that telegram he sent this morning.”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t leave on the early train and have you meet him there when it was convenient.”

“Who knows how that man’s mind works?” Watson said. Discussing Holmes with his wife rarely went well, despite what he told Holmes, and this conversation was going nowhere very quickly. He decided to change the subject. “Maisy said you’d been calling today. With whom?” He picked up his comb from the dressing table and ran the teeth over his fingers before tucking it away in an oversized wallet along with a small hand mirror and a jar of hair tonic and pomade.

“It was the Morans’ at-home day. Elizabeth always has the most lovely conversation.”

“Ah.” He never could understand what his wife saw in her friendship with the Morans. When he’d gone with her last week to their at-home day, it was all he could do to stay in the same room as that man for twenty minutes. His conversation had been perfectly pleasant, but there was a reptilian glint in his eyes that made his hackles rise.

“Her daughter Philippa is studying piano and French with that new governess. They’re quite pleased with her progress.”

“That’s lovely.”

“She also knows a midwife that specializes in... cases like ours. I thought I might send my card.”

Watson froze for an instant before his voice caught up to him. She had been discussing their lack of children with this woman? How had their friendship progressed to such a level without his knowledge? Was he really that oblivious?

“I - That is - Do you really think it’s -” He paused to collect his thoughts. It was only a midwife, after all, and as far as he knew the conversation had only been among women. Perhaps he needn’t worry.

“If you think it would be of help to you, Mary.” He tried on a smile that he hoped looked comforting.

The grin that spread over her face made his blood run cold, as though she’d won some private game.

“I think it would give me immeasurable comfort,” she said, placing the shirts she’d folded ever so carefully into his suitcase.

She closed the latch on the case and turned to face him, her hands clasped in front of her, a look of satisfaction in her eyes. She nodded.

“Have a pleasant journey. And I look forward to your telegram this evening,” she said.

And with that, she was gone, out of the bedroom and across the hall. He heard the key turn in the morning room door.

What the devil had just happened?

If his wife wanted to consult with a midwife, that was her prerogative. He couldn’t help that his injuries kept him from the marriage bed, could he? Or did she suspect that it wasn’t injury at all? Watson shook his head. He’d never once given her cause to be unhappy except in this one thing. It was merely a whimsy of hers, nothing more. Wasn’t it?

He plucked up his suitcase and hurried out of the house, his thoughts roiling.

 

****************

 

Mary turned the key in the door of the morning room and leaned against it, her hand resting on her stomach. She should have known, after two weeks of having him all to herself, that ridiculous detective would pull her husband away, and for God knew how long. How was she supposed to attend the opening night gala for a new staging of Tannhauser alone? How was she expected to make contacts and progress them up the ladder of respectability when her husband kept running off? He could possibly make himself useful in a town like Oxford, but the man was all but oblivious to the ways of ingratiating himself into the right social circles. It was maddening.

She consoled herself in the knowledge that at least she’d been granted permission to see the midwife.

She crossed to the desk tucked into the corner of the room, away from the tastefully arranged couch and overstuffed chairs, and placed the slip of paper with a name and address written on it in flat, blunt letters. Elizabeth Moran couldn’t converse her way out of a feed sack, but her husband had turned out to be useful as more than just a middling rung on the ladder of society.

Mary turned to the windows and flung the drapes wide, letting in all the light the room would allow. It was still dim, the sun having crossed its zenith, not to mention the clouds that hung low over the city. It didn’t matter. She watched as her husband all but ran down the pavement toward the main street to hail a cab.

She pulled the drapes closed again, then lit a small lamp on the desk. She pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen, testing the words she would use in her letter.


	3. Chapter 3

Just as he’d promised, Watson was at the station in time for the three o’clock train. He was dressed in a lovely brown tweed suit and bowler hat that Holmes admired for perhaps more specific reasons than simply its aesthetic. It was almost too far into spring for it, but he couldn’t be bothered to reprimand the man. He carried it too well.

As Watson drew closer, however, Holmes could tell that all was not as it should be. The creases at the corners of his eyes were deeper (worry), the set of his jaw firmer than it had been that morning in Baker Street (irritation). Something had happened between his leaving Baker Street and arriving here. But he had come, and as he drew closer, the creases smoothed and his jaw relaxed. When faced with Dr. John H. Watson in those trousers, smiling, his restraint crumbled. He grinned.

Holmes shook Watson’s hand as he drew up, and they stood silently, waiting for the other to speak.

“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a private compartment,” Holmes murmured after a few moments, “So that we may discuss the details of the case without interruption.”

“I had no idea the case was so sensitive.”

Holmes nodded, and a vision of a potential ‘sensitive case’ flooded his mind. His Watson, spread out on the compartment bench, Holmes kneeling between his thighs. The very idea of it, the absolute folly of such an act sparked his arousal. It could never happen, of course, and if he were honest, their moments in the Turkish bath had been almost as delightful, but the thought continued to eat away at him. That the fantasy was encroaching on his mind now rankled, and he pushed it away, into a room in his mind palace that he reserved for such things. He couldn’t quite bring himself to erase it.

When Watson had initially moved in, the facade of ‘cold, detached reasoning’ had been an easy one to keep in place. The two of them simply shared a flat, as many bachelors did. It was luck that the two of them were compatible as friends. It had seemed like divine providence, if Holmes believed in such drivel, when a chance brush of hands led to a lingering look, which over the course of weeks led to kisses in locked bedrooms, silent steps through doors that squealed at the slightest provocation because both beds needed to be slept in.

Then Watson had announced his engagement, and Holmes had locked himself away, retreated back into his cold facade. It had taken him many long, lonely weeks, and more than a few dances with a cocaine bottle, to come to terms with their new situation. But he had, and began once again inviting Watson along on actual cases. Watson had been elated.

Their intimacy had changed, Watson no longer spent nights at Baker Street, but Holmes had taught himself to find contentment where he could.

The fact that Holmes’ heart was torn to ribbons every time Watson left was irrelevant. He should be grateful for the moments they did share. His selfishness would be his ruin if he did not contain it. And his ruin would be Watson’s and he could never live with himself if that happened. And yet… and yet he could not depart for Oxford without inviting Watson along. He had no logical reason for his inability to detach himself from this man. He took what comfort he could in the knowledge that Watson seemed unable to, either.

The conductor called for boarding, and the pair made their way to their compartment. After they’d had their tickets punched, Watson once again pulled out his notebook.

“So, who is our client?” Watson asked, his pencil hovering over the page, his eyes alight with keen interest.

“In a way, I suppose, the client is myself,” Holmes answered.

Watson’s expression faltered a bit, confusion now evident in the way his eyebrows came together over his nose. He tucked his notebook back into his pocket.

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps I should have made it clear to you this morning at Baker Street,” Holmes began, “but as you yourself have pointed out before, I am both incurably selfish and have a decided flair for the dramatic. So here we are.”

“You’re being dramatic now,” Watson said, “out with it.”

“Wilde has been arrested for gross indecency.”

Holmes stated the facts as he knew them, no more, no less. It was in his favor that the trial for libel had only lasted a few days. Oxford was a haven, of sorts, if those still existed, although the only truly safe retreat was the continent. That had ceased to be an option, for reasons known only to Wilde, and time was not on Holmes’ side.

“Good Lord,” Watson said. He sat back, his eyes roaming along the shelf above the bench opposite them. “But he was married. Had children. Surely…” Watson stared at Holmes then, his color slowly draining.

“I’ve arranged to lodge in Oxford for the next few weeks,” Holmes said. “I…” He paused, the words he needed just out of reach. Uncharacteristic and annoying in the extreme for his faculties to desert him at so inopportune a moment. He dropped his eyes to the floor, then back to Watson, and the intensity in his warm blue eyes felt like a blow. “I cannot expect a man to accompany me on such a case. I also cannot bring myself to tell you to stay in London. I am afraid, my dear fellow, that we are at an impasse.” Holmes could only hope that Watson understood what he was truly saying.

“Will you be needing my… assistance for this case?” Watson’s inflection told Holmes that he had indeed understood, and Holmes shoulders relaxed a fraction. He had never known his Watson to shirk danger, even possible arrest, in the pursuit of a villain. But this was not running through the dark streets of London hot on the heels of a wanted criminal.

“I cannot ask that of you, though you’ve proven invaluable in so many instances that I shall feel your absence most keenly.” Holmes placed a hand on Watson’s knee.

“I am honored to provide what little help I may,” Watson replied, covering Holmes’ hand with his own.

Holmes inhaled sharply, but there was no mistaking the earnestness in Watson’s expression. The gentle pressure of Watson’s thumb across his knuckles caused a rather sharp knot to form just below his breastbone, and he found he had difficulty swallowing.

Both men turned away, then, and kept their eyes resolutely fixed in front of them, each lost for a time in their own thoughts. As Watson’s thumb continued to brush across his knuckles, he felt the knot ease a bit, and he could contemplate his next course of action.

Although not officially connected to the trial, by his own insistence and everyone else’s mutual agreement, he had taken it upon himself to unearth documentation that, if not outright overturning that confounding blackmailer’s charter would at least take its teeth out. Of course, in order to do that, he needed documents, and a good deal of them. He’d come across a reference to an ancient charter that held promise, but he could not find the text reproduced anywhere.  Hence, his journey to Oxford, and the Bodleian Library.

Noise in the corridor outside their compartment caused the pair to fling their hands away from each other, Holmes’ coming up to rest beneath his chin and Watson’s on his opposite elbow. The poses were ridiculous, but it was enough. Two friends sharing a compartment, nothing more.

A pair of ladies wandered past, chatting amiably with one another, their hands clasped as they walked one in front of the other down the corridor. Holmes envied the benign neglect that allowed the pair to pass unnoticed. He promptly erased them.

“How long do you suppose our stay in Oxford will be?” Watson asked after a moment.

“I really couldn’t say. I suppose it depends on how long they intend to make the trial last.”

Watson stiffened, then huffed into his moustache.

“I promised Mary a telegram when we arrived. I thought she might like to know when I would return.”

“Ah.” Holmes rearranged himself on the seat. He crossed a leg and leaned back against the window, fishing in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. “Well, for myself it will be well over a fortnight. Possibly a month.”

Watson nodded, his hand drifting back to his knee. He tapped his fingers, and Holmes couldn’t stop the smirk this time. He slid his hand under Watson’s again and Watson’s moustache fluffed in appreciation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, everyone seems to be enjoying this, which is awesome! Thanks!   
> Kudos and comments are my lifeblood and I love every single one of you who leaves one. Really. <3


	4. Chapter 4

The fine mist that had been falling on London followed them, and fat heavy raindrops slid off the slate-tile roofs as Holmes and Watson stepped onto the platform at Oxford station. Watson held two suitcases, and Holmes had just opened his umbrellas when they were hailed by a tall, thin man with walnut colored hair brushed straight back and oiled in place. A thin moustache covered his upper lip, and his eyebrows were shaped a bit like commas, dark where they began, arched high over warm brown eyes, then trailing off into invisibility. It gave him an air of being perpetually surprised.

He waved, just a quick flick of the wrist with his arm extended above his head, and he broke out into a wide grin. Watson’s eyes flicked between the two, noting with some surprise the softening of Holmes expression as the man approached.

“Holmes!” he said and stuck out his hand.

“Trevor.”

The handshake continued a few moments too long, in Watson’s opinion, and Trevor grasped Holmes’ arm afterwards.

“How was the journey, old man, hadn’t heard from you in ages and suddenly there’s a telegram! Two, in fact, you must be doing well for yourself in that detective business.” Trevor’s voice was high-pitched, nasal, and Watson found it grating in the extreme.

“And you must be Doctor Watson!” he said.  “Holmes said to expect the pair of you. Victor Trevor.”

As Trevor’s gaze landed on him, Watson had the distinct feeling of being sized up and found wanting. He instinctively straightened into a more military posture, an eyebrow lifting a few fractions of an inch in silent challenge. Trevor extended his hand, and Watson set down a suitcase to return the gesture. He received a handshake that felt like someone had just handed him a dead fish.

“A pleasure,” Watson bit out, extracting himself from the handshake as quickly as possible without implying rudeness.

Trevor turned immediately to Holmes, and Watson got the impression that he was being dismissed.

“I’ve a table at Haversham’s for dinner, hope that wasn’t too presumptuous.”

“Do they still serve that delightful cutlet?”

“If anything, it’s better now.”

“Hm, that might take a bit of effort.”

“Bit blue, is he?” Victor asked, eyes darting to Watson.

“Not particularly,” Holmes replied, as though it made sense.

Victor shrugged. “Your trade, then?”

“Not in the slightest.” Holmes looked affronted at this, why he would be Watson had no idea. But Victor seemed pleased.

“I’m sorry, how do you know each other?” Watson interrupted.

Trevor turned to Watson as though surprised he was still standing there.

“Trevor is an old friend of mine,” Holmes said, “We attended here together. I never told you?”

“I can say with absolute certainty that you have never once mentioned the name of Victor Trevor within my hearing,” Watson said.

“Ah. Well...” Holmes eyes flicked to the pavement for a brief moment.

“Truly? He’s never mentioned me?” Trevor interrupted, and clapped a hand on Holmes’ shoulder. “Ha! We were practically inseparable! Shall I tell the tale of how we met, old boy?”

Trevor linked his arm through Holmes’ as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on, I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your rooms.”

Despite the fact that Trevor was ostensibly telling Watson the story of how his terrier ‘Achilles’ (God rest his soul) had been the catalyst for their meeting, he and Holmes were somehow always in front of him, and Trevor threw the odd word over his shoulder. Watson found himself staring holes into the back of Trevor’s black frock coat, not caring in the slightest that Trevor had visited Holmes every day as he recovered from Achilles’ bite to the ankle. And every so often, there would be two or three sentences between Trevor and Holmes that Watson thought he should really be able to understand but where the words seemed to make little sense within the larger context of the story. It was very irritating.

Holmes, for his part, was silent, but Watson could see the telltale twitch of his cheek as he bit back a smirk. Watson clenched his jaw and strode along behind them, resolutely silent, his shoes tapping along the pavement. The final straw came when he inadvertently stepped in a puddle, soaking his right trouser leg up to the knee in muddy water.

“Damn!”

Trevor and Holmes stopped abruptly in front of him and turned around, astonishment blatant on both their faces. Watson realized that he’d said that a bit louder than decorum allowed.

“Puddle,” he mumbled.

“Well, we’re almost to your lodgings, now. Holmes, you won’t believe what I found for you, it’s incredible. And what a location! Just down the street from…”

Watson wished he could shut his ears to save himself from listening to the idle prattle of this man. How could Holmes have ever listened to his voice for more than fifteen minutes altogether? It was infuriating.

After several more streets, they stopped in front of a large rambling building in Holywell Street, just steps from the Bodleian Library. Trevor knocked on the door and an elderly gentleman with stooped shoulders answered. He held a sturdy oak cane in his left hand and looked as though he could still cudgel an urchin with it, despite his stoop. Watson took a liking to him on sight.

“Trevor,” the man said, and nodded. “These must be the fellows you told me about this morning.”

“Yes. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, an old friend of mine, and his friend Dr. Watson.”

“Fine! I’ve got your rooms prepared upstairs. Nothing fancy, mind. Just a sitting room and bedroom. But they’re clean, and the Missus lays a good fire.”

He looked Watson over once, and his lips split into a broad grin.

“Laundry’s extra, of course.”

“Of course,” Watson replied, resigned to his indignity.

The three entered the large common area of the inn and went about the usual business of pulling off gloves and hats and furling umbrellas. Watson noticed that Trevor took up Holmes’ arm again as soon as they’d settled. Watson shoved his fists into his pockets.

“You look like fine upstanding gentlemen, but I tell everyone the same thing: breakfast from eight to nine, although if you’re an early riser there’s usually muffins and tea to be had.  Supper at seven, sharp. And the last: no entertaining ladies. I won’t have it under my roof, and if you’re so inclined you can find another place to sleep.” He pointed his cane at Holmes, then at Watson, his eyes narrowed.

Holmes let out a singular bark of laughter, and grinned at the old man.

“I can assure you, sir, that we are not here to entertain ladies.”

“Good.” He nodded once for emphasis. “I’m Jacobs. Missus is in the back cooking supper for the other lads. Should we set a place for you tonight?”

“Oh, no need.” Trevor shook his head, and stepped closer to Holmes if that were possible. “I’ve a table at Haversham’s for tonight.”

Watson tried not to roll his eyes, he really did, but was unsuccessful. He did manage, however, to repress the sigh.

“Right. Well, then, I’ll show you upstairs.”

“You can wait here, Trevor, until we get settled? It should only take but a moment,” Holmes said, and extricated himself from Trevor’s arm.

Watson stepped between the two before the air had time to cool, the suitcases in his hands inadvertently banging into Trevor’s knees.

"Lead the way Mr. Jacobs!”

As they followed Jacobs, Watson glanced over his shoulder. Trevor stood by the door, his pocketwatch pulled from his waistcoat. Just as Watson was about to turn and ascend the stairs, Trevor looked up, smiled, and winked. Watson scowled, then executed a sharp military turn and followed Holmes upstairs.

Jacobs showed them to a room at the end of the hall, handed Holmes a key, and nodded his departure.

The rooms Trevor had found for them were quite excellent. The small sitting room had two overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace, as well as a desk in the corner behind the door and an impressively large window opposite.

“Quite comfortable,” Watson said, setting the suitcases down next to the left-hand chair out of habit.

“Indeed. I hadn’t expected anything quite so pleasant on such short notice, but Trevor has gained quite a bit of influence, it seems.”

Watson huffed, but didn’t speak. He hung his hat on the stand by the door, then went to investigate the bedroom, suitcases in tow. Left to his own devices, Holmes would never unpack, just strew things around the room as he dug them out to get to what was underneath.

The bedroom was even smaller than the sitting room, with only enough space for a wardrobe and a double bed. Watson swallowed hard, realizing that he and Holmes would be sharing that bed. It hadn’t quite seemed real until he was staring at it, draped in a white embroidered coverlet. They would wake up side-by-side and no one would think it strange at all. Watson could barely remember what it was like to wake up with Holmes’ back pressed against his stomach.

He set the suitcases on the bed and opened Holmes’ first, noting the precision with which Mrs. Hudson had packed it. Bless that woman, she went above and beyond her duty to that man and Watson loved her for it.

It was the work of several minutes to unpack both suitcases, and then it took two more for Watson to change his suit. His grey spring suit was not nearly so well-tailored as the brown tweed, but it was serviceable and had an added benefit of being completely mud-free.

When he emerged into the sitting room again, Holmes was ensconced in a chair, smoking a pipe.

“How much extra for the laundry, do you think?” Watson asked, contemplating the ruined trousers clutched in his left hand

“I am certain you needn’t worry about it,” Holmes replied.

“Holmes, I couldn’t possibly…”

Holmes raised a hand to stop him.

Watson sighed, a fond smile on his lips.

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, my boy. Nothing.” The smile that Holmes returned to him breathed new life into Watson. The itching tension behind his eyes relaxed and the desire to hit something, hard, with his fist, vanished altogether. He sat opposite Holmes, remembering how they used to sit together every evening, in front of the fire at 221B, at peace sharing the same spaces, words unnecessary clutter.

“Don’t you think we should go downstairs?” Watson asked after a moment. The easy silences they’d shared seemed to have vanished.

“What, and interrupt Jacobs as he relates the entire history of his inn? I can’t think that you, Watson, of all people would be so rude.”

Holmes’ lips pursed into a cheeky grin, and the pair shared a conspiratorial chuckle.

“Tell me truly, Holmes, how could you stand him?”

Watson regretted it the instant the question left his mouth. The curtain that had just begun to open over Holmes’ expression fell back into place, and his eyes hardened into granite.

“I could ask you the same of some of your...associates,” Holmes retorted, his voice as hard as his eyes.

“Forgive me, Holmes, I didn’t…” Watson leaned forward in his chair, staring at the worn carpet between his heels.

“No. No you didn’t.” Holmes took a deep pull on his pipe, his exhale loud in the stillness. Not for the first time, Watson thought about what had happened to their easy association, their friendship. It was not the easy, careless banter it once was. There was an edge to it, always, a trepidation. And sometimes, anger.

“I’m sorry.” Not just for insulting his friend, but for everything, for the way in which his choices had created a gulf between them that time, it seemed, could not heal. Watson rose from his chair and gathered his hat.

“John,” Holmes said, and it resonated through the room, echoing through Watson’s mind. The melancholy tone made Watson turn.

Holmes sat motionless in his chair, pipe still lit, held out in his right hand.

“Sherlock?” Watson ventured, uncertain what Holmes’ next words would be. It had been nearly five years since he’d heard the man utter his given name.

“Thank you.”

Of all the things Holmes could have said in that moment, this was the last one Watson had expected. He retreated from the door, hat in hand, and stood in front of Holmes’ chair.

Holmes looked up at him, his lips pressed between his teeth, holding in words that Watson wished he could hear. Even if it was to admonish him, to scold him, to insult him, Watson would bear it all if it meant that Holmes said what was in his heart.

As soon as the moment occurred, it passed, and Holmes was up out of his chair and plucking his own hat from the stand.

“Well, I suppose Jacobs is finished with his history lesson by now. Come along, Watson, you’ve never tasted anything so divine as the cutlets at Haversham’s.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been so kind leaving comments and kudos on this. It means a lot. Especially to [jordankaine](jordankaine.tumblr.com), who has been a fantastic cheerleader for this, which means SO much. *mwah*


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Mary Watson smoothed down her blue striped walking skirt for the seventh time in as many minutes. She was prepared for this meeting, she knew it, but it still unsettled her, set the butterflies alight in her stomach when she thought of it. She adjusted her hat, pulled the sleeves of her jacket into place, laced her fingers together to tighten her gloves, then took a deep breath in through her nose to steady herself. She was ready.

Her destination was not far, the day was pleasant, and so she decided to walk, giving herself time to go over the words she would use, the structure of her arguments, one last time. She found her mind wandering, instead, to the telegram she’d received a week ago. She paused to pull it out of her purse.

“Have arrived safely address to follow”

Her only comfort this past week was a disappointing telegram with a promise to write and an even more disappointing letter that contained little more than the address of his lodgings. She hadn’t expected a lengthy letter, he wasn’t much for writing, but an endearment or two would have been most welcome. But no, he was busy with whatever that detective asked of him, and she would be left to her own devices. ‘You can write,’ indeed.

She scoffed, folding the telegram in half along a much-abused crease and tucking it back into her purse. She didn’t know if it would be useful, but it seemed so. If anything, it strengthened her resolve, and that was worth a great deal.

She arrived at the address Colonel Moran had given her. It was situated on the corner of a respectable street with lettering on the door that simply said ‘Prof. Moriarty, Consultant’ in gold script. The house itself was rather bland, white with dark shutters. The knocker in the center of the door was brass and unremarkable save for that it was polished to within an inch of its life and offered Mary her reflection as she stepped up to knock.

She reached up with gloved fingers and let the knocker fall once, twice, and waited. It was several moments before the door opened and a man dressed in an impeccable butler’s uniform greeted her.

“I have an appointment,” Mary began, pulling a card from her purse and handing it over.

“For Sir or Madam?”

“Mrs. Moriarty has agreed to meet with me,” Mary replied.

“You may wait in the parlor.” He opened the door fully and Mary stepped into the entryway. It was dark, all walnut stain and green wallpaper. A table stood by the door with a salver full of cards, and Mary was sorely tempted to peek through them for a glimpse of the caliber of clientele Mrs. Moriarty entertained. She refrained, her sense of propriety winning out. She followed the butler down a short hall and he ushered her into the parlor.

The parlor was bright, with patterned gold wallpaper and stylish lace curtains. There was even an upright piano in the far corner, with an embroidered stool upon which to sit and play. Overstuffed and occasional chairs littered the room, all arranged in groups of two with a table between. There was a settee in front of a large window that looked out onto a postage-stamp sized garden overflowing with greenery and the first few blossoms of spring. It was all very respectable. Mary noticed three photographs hung on the wall over the fireplace, and wandered over to take a closer look.

The first was of a couple, she assumed Professor and Mrs. Moriarty, with him seated on a stool and her standing behind, her hand draped delicately over his shoulder. They both had dark hair and eyes and stared intently at the camera. Even in the photograph, Mary could see the cunning in her eyes. The second was of a blond man, standing alone, holding an ornately carved walking stick. The third was of the same woman as in the first photograph only many years younger and wearing a light-colored dress, standing between two large potted plants.

Mary settled herself on the settee to wait for her hostess.

She knew the game being played. She would wait until it bordered on rudeness to remain without seeing the mistress of the house, and then said mistress would enter without preamble. It was meant to unbalance the guest, make them uncomfortable, doubt themselves and their errand. It was meant to put the host in a position of power. Mary simply used the few extra moments alone to review her words yet again, ensure that her carefully constructed request would not be dismissed outright.

The moments stretched into nearly fifteen minutes, and yet Mary remained, seated primly on the settee, gazing out into the garden, delighted when a sparrow alighted there to scratch at the earth in search of a meal. She heard the sound of the doorknob behind her, but did not turn to look. It was her turn to play a bit of a game.

“Mrs. Watson,” the voice was not feminine. All of Mary’s carefully laid plans for her social dance with Mrs. Moriarty came screeching to a halt. She turned toward the voice.

The man that stood in the room matched his photograph. He was not physically imposing, his stature was barely above that of her husband, and he was much less sturdily built. No, he was not an impressive man, but he filled the room with his presence, and that had everything to do with his eyes.

Dark and intense, so dark that Mary couldn’t differentiate between iris and pupil. There was a light in them, however, that had nothing to do with their color, and it made gooseflesh rise on her arms.

“Professor Moriarty?” Mary asked, rising.

The man inclined his head.

“I was under the impression that I would be meeting with Mrs. Moriarty today,” Mary said, taking a small step forward and raising her chin. She would not be cowed by that gaze.

“Mm. Plans change. You’ve become much more interesting to me of late, Mrs. Watson.”

“And why would I be interesting to someone like you, Professor?” She smiled sweetly, her head tilted to one side. The very picture of a demure wife.

“Well, not you, specifically. No. It’s your husband, you see. Your connections. They interest me deeply.” Moriarty took two steps forward, and he was now close enough to Mary for her to smell his hair tonic, close enough for him to reach out and run her through with the fire poker, if he chose. She held her ground and his eyes.

“And how has my husband come under the scrutiny of someone with your talents?” Mary asked.

“Oh, Mrs. Watson,” he sang her name, a lilting minor-key tune. “You’re missing the bigger picture here. You’re missing all the fun.” He sighed and turned to face the fire. “I should have known. No vision. No grand designs. Simply the petty yearnings of a woman who’s decided she’s got the best she can hope for. Pity. Perhaps I will turn you over to my wife, after all.” He retreated to the door. “If all you’re after is children, Mrs. Watson, I’m afraid I cannot assist you.”

What? Had she been too opaque in her enquiries? And if she had, then why had Moriarty himself come in to see her?

“What do you mean?” Mary said, the words coming too quickly, her impatience too obvious. She took a measured breath through her nose. “That is, perhaps you have underestimated my vision.”

“And what vision is that,” he spat. “Seven children and a house in the country? Please. My time is more valuable than that.”

“The self-destruction of one Sherlock Holmes.” There was iron in her voice, granite in her eyes.

He turned to face her, his eyes ablaze with a barely suppressed glee and his mouth curling up into a devilish grin.

“Now you have my attention.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos and bookmarking. Thank you so much for your support, it honestly means the world to me to know that there are so many people out there enjoying this story.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know it's been a long time coming, but I hope it was worth the wait. Thanks for sticking with me.

**June 1889**

Watson relaxed in his chair in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. He and Holmes had just returned from Simpson’s and a delightful ramble through Regent’s Park, culminating in a stroll through the botanical gardens, with Holmes pointing out, again, all the various herbs with which poisons could be made. Watson never interrupted him, even though he himself could possibly identify them at this point. He enjoyed listening to Holmes’ voice at any time, but particularly when it was filled with enthusiasm. 

Holmes was set up with his chemistry equipment spread across the dining table. He was absorbed in some experiment that didn’t fill the entire flat with odious stink, for which Watson was immensely grateful. The final evening post had just arrived, and Watson was sorting it out, mostly letters requesting the services of one Consulting Detective. There were only a very few that Watson thought Holmes might find interesting, and he set them aside until the experiment was complete.

At the bottom of the stack was a small envelope with Watson’s name as the recipient. He frowned, wondering who on earth could be sending him a letter. Murray was still in service and he’d just received a letter from him three days ago. Besides, this didn’t appear to be his handwriting. He turned the envelope over in his hands, trying in vain to ascertain details about the sender before opening it. It was no use. Sherlock Holmes he was not.

He slid the letter opener across the fold and extracted the paper inside. It was not a long correspondence, three lines in total, but it sent terror clambering down Watson’s spine like a monkey, clinging to him even after he’d thrown the paper in the fire.

 

********

 

**August, 1889**

“I… I’ve become engaged to be married, Holmes,” Watson said. He stood in front of one of the windows in their shared flat, looking out over the street below. For so warm an evening, the street was quite deserted. He heard the intake of breath behind him, but couldn’t turn to face the man just yet.

“And who is this woman that has so suddenly tamed your bachelor’s heart?”

The sting in the words was undisguised, and Watson couldn’t blame him. It did seem sudden, and it was not a marriage Watson entered into lightly.

“Mary Morstan. From the Agra Treasure case, you remember?”

“Oh yes. Yes, of course. Strange, I don’t remember you taking an especial liking to her.”

Watson swallowed. This was not going to be an easy thing. He’d known that going in, but his mind was made up, even as his heart was torn. Mary was a nice girl, sweet, demure, she would make a fine wife. And he was certain that his fondness would only grow, with time. He was certainly fond of her now. Quite fond, actually. 

“I did,” he said, fists clenching in his pockets.

“Apparently, if you’re going to marry her. When is the happy occasion?”

Watson turned, then, searching Holmes’ face for any sign of acceptance, but he only saw a mask of indifference, and his resolve nearly crumbled. But he could not allow it. Not now.

“Next month.”

“I see. Marry in September’s shine, your living will be rich and fine. I believe that is how the saying goes. What luck.” The outright derision in his voice was enough to curdle milk.

“Sherlock...” Watson took a step forward, but Holmes held up his hand.

“You needn’t say more, Watson.”

His heart felt like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed with all their strength. He ground his teeth, trying to find words that would soothe them both, but they were scattered, paper before a hurricane. He deflated, all the preparation and all the words he’d wanted to say were useless. He knew it would change them, but things could not go on as they were without consequences.

“Goodnight, Holmes.” He walked out of the sitting room, brushing past Holmes in his chair, and wondered if he had broken something beyond repair.

 

********

**April, 1895**

Holmes settled into the right-hand armchair before the fire. They’d had an incongruously enjoyable supper at Haversham’s, Trevor monopolizing the conversation, telling stories of his and Holmes’ university days, with no one in the mood to interject. Watson had retired nearly an hour ago, and Holmes stared into the flames, his knees drawn up to his chin, contemplating.

He could picture Watson asleep in the bedroom, lying on his back, his mouth slightly ajar, soft snores, one arm flung across the bed (in welcome).

No. No, he’d allowed his self-control to slip too many times. And while he enjoyed Watson’s affection, he could not reconcile it with his marriage. Oh, yes, it was the done thing, everyone had wives, but it remained that Sherlock Holmes did not, and would not. Perhaps he took the commitment too seriously. Or perhaps he took his fondness for Watson too seriously. Either way he was at an impasse, neither moving forward nor stepping back, and it was intolerable.

Five years he’d spent, drawing away from the good doctor, only to pull him back into orbit (oh, wouldn’t Watson be proud, how he’d learned about the solar system) when the adventure was sufficient to pique his interest. 

He had held out altogether for nearly a year before he’d sent the first telegram. It was a perfect case for Watson’s particular milieu, with elements of both military hierarchy and medical knowledge. He’d written out the telegram address before he’d stopped to think. It felt like picking open a wound that had just recently stopped bleeding. 

He’d sent the telegram the next morning. Watson had come immediately. An embrace had been involved upon the successful resolution of the case. Watson had smiled, and Holmes had smiled back. The invitations had slowly become more frequent, the displays of affection on Watson’s part more overt, at least in the confines of Baker Street, and while Holmes had not encouraged it, he’d not declined when Watson had kissed his knuckles.

This had been the first time Holmes had brought him on a case that involved no midnight stakeouts, no careening down alleyways, no need for his revolver (although he’d brought it anyway). It wasn’t even a proper case. It was research. And it was flight. 

Not cowardice, although it might appear so. Self-preservation. Holmes knew himself well enough to know that two years of hard labor would kill him, if not outright then by attrition and decline afterwards. And while he had been discreet, with the current climate even whispers of impropriety were enough. And there had been whispers surrounding Holmes for decades. He supposed he should be thankful his other eccentricities were enough to encourage people to believe there wasn’t a woman alive who would tolerate living with him, as opposed to the truth of the matter.

The fire settled in the grate, sending a cascade of sparks up the chimney, and Holmes heard the bed groan as Watson shifted in his sleep.

No, it wasn’t that. There were footfalls, the rattle of the knob.

Watson appeared in the doorway in his nightshirt, a lick of hair on the back of his head stuck up at an odd angle. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

“Are you sleeping tonight?” he asked. 

Holmes wasn’t certain. He could sleep, his body would allow it this evening. The aching dread that had gripped him that morning had ebbed as he’d put distance between himself and London, which was odd because normally the opposite would prove true. There was nothing to be done tonight aside from stare at the fire as it slowly burned itself out and roll the events of the past five years over and over in his mind. He would find nothing new. He never did.

“The armchair is quite comfortable,” Holmes said.

Watson sighed and lingered in the doorway for several moments before shuffling out into the sitting room and taking up his place in the armchair opposite. Holmes moved only his eyes as he watched Watson sink into the chair with a grunt and another yawn.

“Right, then.” Watson said, nodding. He folded his arms over his chest and settled in, leaning his head back and allowing his eyes to drop closed.

“Watson, you needn’t bother yourself on my account. I’m perfectly content with my own company.”

Watson cracked one eye open, surveying Holmes in that mildly amused way he remembered from so many years ago, and smirked. 

“Of course, Holmes. Of course. That’s why you asked me along. Because you like to be alone.”

“I invited you along because you have a certain facility with people that I, due to the cultivation of other merits, lack. And tomorrow, I shall need you to clear our way to studying certain documents.”

“Oh, you need a diversion.”

“If you like. I have certain privileges bestowed from attending here, but I’m afraid that most of the documents I require are not, strictly speaking, accessible to me.”

“So I chat with the attendant while you pick the lock?” Watson grinned. “That sounds quite a bit like old times, Holmes. Just the two of us.”

Holmes swallowed and wrapped his arms more tightly around his legs. The last time, Watson had distracted a police officer from his duties guarding a crime scene so that Holmes could deduce it. The whole affair had been over in fifteen minutes, Holmes had collected enough evidence to present to Scotland Yard, and the criminal had been apprehended that very afternoon.

The day had ended well, he remembered, with an evening spent first at Simpson’s, and then in the stalls at a concert hall, with the most lovely piano duets. Then home to Baker Street, and a pipe, and Watson reading aloud from the papers to great comedic effect. It had been, if he wanted to be sentimental about it, idyllic. He wanted to reminisce about that case, about how adroitly Watson had misdirected the police officer’s attention.

“Have you sent that telegram?” Holmes asked instead.

“What telegram?”

“The telegram you promised Mrs. Watson,” Holmes said mildly, knowing full well Watson hadn’t been in the vicinity of a telegram office all evening. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to remind Watson to keep up with his wife. It would make his situation easier if he allowed them to become estranged. It felt like a duty, however, because Watson had chosen her, and any woman Watson had deigned to wed must have some redeeming quality. Holmes spent a great deal of time trying to deduce what that redeeming quality was.

Watson sat up in his chair, his eyes wide, his hands clutched at the ends of the armrests.

“Mary will be livid,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Holmes merely nodded, once, his chin dipping to his chest. Perhaps it was petty, perhaps it was just this side of cruel, but Holmes could not put that woman from his mind and, much as he would like to, would not allow Watson to, either. There were limits, and they both had to maintain propriety. But he couldn’t help the small, tender satisfaction he got from the fact that Watson had forgotten. It was these moments, fleeting and insignificant on their own, that allowed him to believe that there was more to Watson’s affection than merely the physical. 

“First thing in the morning,” Watson said. “I can send one first thing in the morning. Then a short letter by the third post. Yes.”

“Yes,” Holmes echoed.

Holmes could feel Watson’s eyes on him, studying him wrapped up in the armchair. He wondered if his selfish desires were written across his face as clearly as he feared. 

“Well, I suppose if I’m to be in top form tomorrow for our little adventure I should get some sleep.” Watson patted the arms of his chair, rubbing at the armrests before shoving himself upright. “I…” Watson paused, then placed his hand on Holmes’ shoulder as he moved toward the bedroom door. “I do wish you would get some sleep.”

The invitation was unmistakable, the hand on his shoulder was warm and familiar, and Holmes was unfolding from the chair before he could stop himself.

“I think, Watson, that I am feeling a bit fatigued.”


End file.
